Warlord of Azatlan

3

Smoke swirled from burning cornfields and obscured the valleys. In the ninety seconds of their approach to La Aurora International Airport, Able Team saw volcanoes crowned with clouds, jungle patterned by scorched fields and yellow-dust roads, the raw earth of new subdivisions carved from the hills and ravines around Guatemala City. Then their jet's wheels screeched on the blacktop.

The jet taxied past the passenger terminal and continued down the runway to the private and corporate planes at the far end of the field. Passing parked Pipers, Beechcrafts and Lear jets, the pilot halted their plane only a few steps from an open hangar.

Konzaki said farewell to the three men of Able Team. "See you next week. Do the best you can and be discreet."

"We'll get him." Lyons shook Konzaki's hand, then dodged a friendly punch. He lifted his backpack and the fiberboard case concealing his Atchisson, and went to the cabin door.

"One last question," Blancanales asked Konzaki. "If the Guatemalans are so nationalistic and proud, why are they allowing us into the country?"

"Like I told you, hot pursuit. Also..." Konzaki glanced out the ports, saw field workers pushing stairs to the jet's door "...they think Unomundo's people might have infiltrated their security organizations. If they mounted an action, his spies would know. But if three North Americans drop out of the sky…"

Gadgets looked to Blancanales. "My paranoia meter just red-lined. If Unomundo has spies in the police and army, why not in our liaison group. Like in Cairo..."

Months before, agents of the fanatical Muslim Brotherhood had penetrated a secret U.S. Air Force operation in Cairo. With precise information on personnel and activities, the Muslims had plotted attacks and finally killed several Americans. Stony Man dispatched Able Team to Egypt, not to investigate the murders but to shadow the joint CIA/Egyptian task force investigating the acts of terrorism. In one long day and night of unrelenting action, Able Team smashed the Muslim fanatics. In a flaming climax, they tricked the Egyptian liaison who was betraying the Americans into betraying himself.

"Ironman, what do you think?" Gadgets asked Lyons.

"I think I don't like it. Andy, can we ditch our liaison?"

"That's up to you. You three are the men working the operation. You make the decisions."

The cabin door opened. Midday tropical glare and the roar of jet engines cut off the discussion. Lyons saw two Chevy Silverado vans — one-ton pickups built for nine passengers — parked inside a hangar. Two men in sport suits waited there.

Pausing on the aluminum steps to put on his sun-glasses, Lyons scanned the immediate area. Directly in front of him, only twenty steps away, their Guatemalan liaison officers waited. Lyons looked to the hangars on the right and left.

He saw no technicians at the parked planes, no airport workers moving in the other hangars. A truck had its hood open. A tarp on one fender protected the paint from tools and parts, but he saw no mechanic. In another area, a pickup truck idled, cargo stacked in the back, smoke wisping from the exhaust pipe, the driver's door hanging open. A step from the truck, fizzing pink pop spread from a bottle, sunlight glinting from the bottle as it rolled on the concrete.

Lyons put his right hand behind his back, snapped his fingers to get his partners' attention, then straightened his forefinger and made the motion of cocking his thumb back like a pistol hammer.

"Receiving on your wavelength," Gadgets answered. "No video transmission necessary. We got the picture."

As Lyons clanged down the steps, his partners stayed in the jet. Blancanales turned to Gadgets. "When I walk down there, I'm going to embrace our brother officers of the law. Have any small gifts I can give them? So that I can always hear their voices?"

"Electronic abrazos?Gadgets asked. Blancanales nodded.

As Lyons stepped into the hangar's shade, the senior officer, a dignified middle-aged Hispanic wearing an expensive European-styled suit, white peppering his short black hair, extended a strong hand.

"Colonel Morales," the officer told him. He motioned the second man forward. Younger, his shoulders thrown back in military stature, the other man also wore a tailored suit. A gold wristwatch flashed at his cuff.

"Captain Merida."

"Pleasure to meet you," Lyons assured them. "Let's hope we do this business quickly. I know you don't appreciate our troubles coming to your country."

"Yes, we will be quick," Captain Merida told him.

Lyons looked back. He saw Gadgets and Blancanales finally leave the jet. "My partners."

"Only three men?" Colonel Morales asked. He waved toward the two nine-seat trucks. "We were told to expect a team. We thought..."

Blancanales greeted the officers in Spanish, throwing his arms around them as if meeting lifelong friends. The officers politely returned the masculine embraces, then introduced themselves. They turned to Gadgets and shook hands, and introduced themselves in English to him. Finally, Captain Merida motioned toward one of the Silverado war wagons.

"We have far to go. It is already the afternoon."

"Where we going?" Lyons asked.

"To Unomundo," Merida answered.

"You know where he is?"

"We will search."

Lyons looked to the others. "Pol, Wizard. The man may operate up in the hills, but he's got to have people in the city here. Transport, communication, spies in the government, whatever. Perhaps Colonel Morales and Captain Merida might have leads on Unomundo units here. I say we don't go into the mountains cold."

"Is it possible we could gain information from the criminals here?" Blancanales asked the officers. "Before going into the mountains?"

The colonel smiled. "Claro. Of course. In truth, there is one man who we intended to arrest today. A bus driver. He carries messages. We will go to the bus station."

"What about others?" Lyons pressed.

"If not that one, we will take some other. There are many."

Able Team stowed their gear in one of the trucks and got in, Lyons in the front, Gadgets and Blancanales lounging in the middle seat. Captain Merida started the Silverado. They drove into the afternoon glare.

Gadgets glanced back and saw the colonel go to an office. Then they cut between the hangars and continued to an access lane. Gadgets looked over to Blancanales. His partner tapped the tiny plastic phone that was plugged into his ear, and he smiled. In the front seat, Lyons tried to make conversation with Captain Merida.

"This Unomundo character caught our security forces by surprise. How does he operate down here?"

"He is unknown," Merida answered. He followed the narrow lane to a perimeter road. They passed parked cars and pickups. In the several colors of airline companies, technicians moved in equipment yards, or drove service trucks. Administrators in white shirts and ties talked with workers.

"Our officer told us Unomundo has links to the other Central American countries," Lyons continued. "What do you know about the foreigners?"

"Yes, many foreigners."

They came to a guard booth. A man in a suit waved them through the gate. Lyons turned in the front seat and looked back. He saw the man leave the guard booth. A potbellied policeman stepped from a doorway. He wore a uniform of baggy blue pants and a frayed light blue shirt, and carried an M-l carbine. The man in the suit ignored the policeman, went instead to a new Dodge sedan.

Lyons saw Gadgets make the same observation. Gadgets met Lyons's eyes, touched his ear, looked over to Blancanales. Lyons did not understand.

"Later," Gadgets explained.

Following a street to a major boulevard, Captain Merida turned east. Immaculate parkways bright with tropical flowers separated the east-west lanes. New American and European cars competed with trucks and rattling buses for the two lanes flowing east, the cars swerving in and out of traffic with seemingly divine protection. Fumes grayed the air. At every other corner, diesel smoke clouded behind buses pulling away from bus stops.

They came to a traffic circle, from which they traveled north.

Shops, auto dealers, office buildings linked both sides of the avenue. People crowded the sidewalks. Knots of shoppers and workers waited for buses on the corners. Pedestrians dashed through stop-and-go traffic to the grassy islands that divided the north-south lanes.

The North Americans of Able Team saw Guatemalans of all social classes and ethnic origins: Mayan, European, and mixed heritage Ladinos. They saw garage workers in grease-caked coveralls. Office workers in slacks and shirts. Businessmen in Mercedes sedans. Vendors pushing handcarts painted with garish ice cream cones.

Two young businessmen talked at a curb as they attempted to wave down a taxi. Both wore the gray-suit, dark-tie uniform of junior executives. Both held the required briefcases. One had fair hair and European features, the other black hair and a profile seen on the walls of Mayan temples.

Indians walked in the modern crowds. At a traffic light, Lyons studied a Mayan woman. Shoulder to shoulder between a teenage girl in a disco-red jump suit and a technician with the logo of a multinational corporation on his uniform, the Indian woman waited for a bus. She wore sandals on her calloused, dusty feet, a simple wrap-shirt of broadloomed fabric, a huipile — heknew the word from the books — of hand-woven yellow and blues and purples, designs brocaded into the fabric, then highlighted with embroidered details. The cloth and designs and colors were a tapestry of ancient culture: history, tradition, and artistry displayed simultaneously in the marvelous fabric. Even with his ignorance of weaving and needlework, Lyons knew the woman wore months of work.

She saw him staring. Her proud, austere face returned his gaze. She saw only another North American in an automobile, his face like all the others, his sports coat and shirt like the clothes all the others wore, the automobile only one of millions from a factory. She found him uninteresting, and looked away.

Lyons saw her disdain and disinterest, and he laughed at himself. Captain Merida glanced over to him and misinterpreted his laughter. The light changed and he accelerated through the intersection as he commented: "Soon, all those filthy Indians will begone."

Lyons said nothing.

Continuing north on the modern Avenida la Reforma, Captain Merida followed the flow of traffic without speeding or swerving to exploit open lanes. Able Team watched the city pass, turning in their seats to sightsee like tourists.

Gadgets spotted a familiar Dodge sedan. He had seen it before, parked at the airport's guard booth. The man who had waved them through the security gate was driving the sedan. With a glance, Gadgets indicated the car to Blancanales. Blancanales nodded, touched his earphone.

The Reforma passed under a railroad bridge, then they saw a modern civic center of plazas and public buildings. Sidewalk vendors displayed fruits and nuts. Families herded coveys of children. Roller skaters weaved through the crowds. Soldiers with rifles guarded the offices of the Banco de Guatemala. A street preacher held up a Bible and delivered a sermon to a group of onlookers.

Above them, on a hill overlooking the plazas and government offices, they saw a fantasy of free-form concrete: the Teatro Nacional.

A boulevard intersected the Reforma at a diagonal. Captain Merida eased left through the honking, screeching traffic. He then turned left again. Now they drove south. Lyons saw the west side of the Teatro Nacional. He looked into the shadows to double-check, finally asked the captain, "Where are we going?"

"Terminal de autobuses… the bus station."

"But we've gone in a circle."

"The traffic is bad. I go around to save time. Do not worry, we will be there very soon."

They drove through an older section of the city. Diesel-blackened buildings housed workshops, small stores, second— and third-floor apartments. Trucks jammed narrow side streets. Buses that were crowded solid with passengers, goods and produce lashed to the roof racks, low-geared up slight inclines. Captain Merida turned left again to follow a sidestreet for three blocks.

Parked buses lined the streets. Vendors sold vegetables and fruit and manufactured trinkets on blankets spread in the gutters. Five-foot-tall laborers staggered under hundred-pound bags of grain, only their back and a headstrap carrying the loads. Soldiers in combat gear double-parked a jeep and began to unload cases of empty pop bottles at the warehouse of a soft-drink wholesaler. Captain Merida waited patiently for the soldiers to finish and drive away, then continued on.

Buses and trucks blocked a street. A policeman directed Merida to turn. Going right, he saw a gap in the parked cars, and he swerved over to park.

A street vendor's cart occupied the space. The toothless old man put up a hand to halt the truck; he motioned Merida away. Merida took out his wallet and opened it to show a badge and an identification card. But the old man had already turned his back on them.

"Perro anciano!" Captain Merida called out. But in the noise and chaos of the trucks and buses and crowded sidewalks, the old man could not, or would not, hear him.

Throwing the truck into neutral and jerking the parking brake, Captain Merida stepped out. They saw him wave his identification in the old man's face. When the old man talked back, Merida slapped him down, then kicked him. People crowded around as the young man in the expensive suit dragged the old man off the asphalt and threw him against the hand cart. A young laborer stepped forward to defend the old peddler. The captain's identification stopped him. The laborer helped the old man push his cart away.

Meanwhile, Blancanales had leaned forward to Lyons. Motioning Gadgets to listen also, Blancanales whispered: "At the hangar, I put a microtransmitter in Colonel Morales's front coat pocket. He's spent the last half hour on the phone arranging for us to be kidnapped and murdered. It'll happen here."

Captain Merida returned to park the truck. He smiled to the North Americans. "Come, my friends. We will go learn of Unomundo."